NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.
The Email That Undid Me
In July, I attended a child arrangements hearing for my son.
My ex had started the process after the non-molestation order was issued. By then, I already understood how easily family court can become another arena for post-separation abuse. What I had not expected was how unsafe I would feel with my own representation.
My solicitor had told me I did not “present” as a victim, and that his barrister would rip me apart on the stand.
That sentence stayed with me.
Because how exactly is a victim supposed to present?
Broken enough to be believed, but not so broken that you are dismissed. Calm enough to appear credible, but not so calm that your trauma is questioned. Emotional enough to seem harmed, but not so emotional that you are labelled unstable.
There is no safe way to be seen once someone has already decided what a victim should look like.
The Hearing
The abuse had continued through the legal process. I have explained that to people before, and they have often struggled to understand who I meant, so I need to be clear.
I am talking about my solicitor.
Not his.
The hearing on 16 July caused significant harm. I did not feel listened to. I did not feel protected. I felt as though things I had clearly raised about my child’s safety were minimised, missed or disputed.
The hearing proceeded, but so much of what mattered to me was not properly heard.
I had been desperate for a Section 7 report to be requested. I had said this from the first meeting. When I was asked, “Do you really want someone appointed to your child?” my answer was clear.
Yes.
Absolutely yes.
Because he is my child.
Despite what my ex had enforced for too long, despite the language, the control and the attempts to make me feel less entitled to protect him, he is my child. I needed someone independent to look properly at his welfare and his long-term safety.
The hearing was remote because my ex had failed to attend the previous hearing. Eventually, CAFCASS and the court ordered a Section 7 report.
That should have felt like a relief.
But by then, I had already been told I was irrelevant. My other children had been treated as irrelevant. My request for Practice Direction 12J to be properly referenced did not feel heard, despite its purpose in cases involving domestic abuse.
When the order arrived, I could barely process it.
What I did read felt completely inappropriate. It felt like a continuation of the abuse I had already lived through, with my character being presented in a way that reflected his narrative rather than my reality.
I still have not been able to read the whole thing.
The Friday Afternoon Email
With the order came a demand for the first update.
It arrived late on a Friday afternoon.
Of course it did.
By then, I had already left work and had not been able to return. That day had broken something in me, and tonight showed me just how close to the surface it still was.
I opened the email and there he was.
A photograph.
His face.
His eyes.
The man whose abuse still lives in my body. The man whose control I am still trying to escape. The man I avoid looking at in photographs, even when those photographs remain on my son’s wall.
I had to phone a friend.
For the first time in days, I felt lightheaded again. I could not stand properly. I could not breathe properly. It was like the abuse I had been trying so hard to recover from was thrown straight back at me.
This is the part people do not understand about trauma.
It is not just memory.
It is physical.
It is immediate.
It can take one image, one email, one unexpected reminder, and suddenly your body is back there before your mind has had time to catch up.
His Image, My Reality
I kept asking myself why I was being sent photographs of him.
Why was I staring at a picture of my ex in a suit, when I had sold my belongings and my children’s toys to pay off his debts?
Why was I looking at that image when he had lied his way through court and accused me of financial control?
At one point, I could not afford to feed my children properly, yet there he was, presented in a way that seemed so far removed from the reality I had lived.
But the worst part was his eyes.
His eyes haunt me.
I know that may sound dramatic to someone who has not lived it. But people who understand trauma will understand exactly what I mean.
It was not just a photograph.
It was a trigger.
A reminder.
A threat without words.
And after that, I was shaking. I felt physically unwell. I knew the symptoms were connected to trauma, but knowing that does not make them less real.
Living with the fear of what he will do next is exhausting.
Facing October
I wanted to contact Victim Support, but I did not know where to turn.
I was also frightened about my solicitor. The person who should have helped me feel safer in the process had become part of what made me feel exposed and unheard.
In October, I am supposed to face him again.
I am too scared.
I am petrified of what that will do to me. I worry I will be there alone, trying to hold myself together while he continues to cause psychological harm through a system that is supposed to protect children and victims of abuse.
He is good at this.
I am not.
This is my life, and yet I still feel as though I am not allowed to live it without him holding the reins.
Medication and the Cost of Coping
CMHT had prescribed Lorazepam because of the trauma connected to the police investigation and this ongoing situation.
Tonight, I took it for the first time.
That broke my heart in a way I cannot fully explain.
Not because I judge medication. I do not. Medication can be necessary, and there should be no shame in needing support.
But I cried because I realised I now needed medication to cope with the harm other people had caused.
To cope with an email.
To cope with seeing his face.
To cope with the continuation of a process that keeps pulling me back into fear.
Is this what my life has come to?
Needing medication just to get through the impact of him still being able to reach me through systems, solicitors, paperwork, photographs and court?
What Will This Mean for Me?
I keep thinking about the final decision.
What will it mean for my child?
What will it mean for me?
What will it mean for the next fourteen years of my life?
Because this is not only about one hearing or one order. It is about the reality of post-separation abuse when the relationship has ended but the control has not.
It is about the way family court can become another route for harm when domestic abuse is not properly understood.
It is about being expected to stay calm, reasonable and functional while the person who harmed you is still able to reach into your life through legal processes.
Tonight, I do not feel strong.
I feel frightened.
I feel trapped.
And I feel exhausted by the fact that leaving him was not the end of his control.
It was just the beginning of trying to prove it.
